


you're holding in your hands the two halves of my heart

by magneticwave



Category: City Hunter (TV)
Genre: F/F, TW: Ableist Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magneticwave/pseuds/magneticwave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Na-na has made a home for him in Seoul. // Unfortunately, she seems to think that this home necessitates them becoming some kind of private investigator cum superhero team. Of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're holding in your hands the two halves of my heart

**Author's Note:**

> After the end of episode 20, right after my boyfriend turned to me and said, “What the hell happened to the guy they had tied up in their basement?” I thought about how great it would be if there was an epilogue about how Yoon-sung and Na-na became Batman. Since it doesn’t exist, I wrote it.

The best part of living with Na-na, beyond her legs curled parenthetically against his and her hilariously disastrous attempts at cross-stitch and their shared morning judo practice, is that the worst has already happened. They’ve already poured bullets into one another, almost died, seen the worst side of each other, and carved out each other’s hearts. Yoon-sung wakes up every morning and knows that, no matter how awful the day might become, it will never be as bad as trying to press Na-na’s blood back into her shoulder. They can live boring, retired lives from now on and it will be perfect.

He thinks this for seven (blissful) months.

~

“I have an idea,” Na-na announces over breakfast. Like most of Na-na’s ideas, this one is likely to turn out to be composed of eight parts brazen insanity to one part brilliance. It is also likely to get one of them shot.

Poking at his breakfast with a chopstick, Yoon-sung says, in a quelling effort doomed from the start, “If you’re bored, you should try getting a real job.”

“I like helping you,” she says calmly.

Yoon-sung focuses his attention on his chopsticks, aligning them carefully against the inside groove between his thumb and forefinger. When that doesn’t work to hold his attention, he focuses on the mismatched tiling of the kitchen cabinets above Na-na’s head. “Ah,” he finally says, neutrally. His usual policy to prevent Na-na accidentally dying while working for him is blatant antagonism, but the more time that passes, the harder he finds it to maintain his bristling personality.

“I was thinking,” Na-na continues, “that _we_ should get a job. Together.”

Trapped, Yoon-sung says, trying not to betray his desperation, “I thought we were already working together.”

“I work for you,” Na-na clarifies. She nudges his cup of coffee a little closer, as though she is buttering him up for something. “This would be a partnership venture.”

Premonition trickles down Yoon-sung’s spine. “No,” he says quickly, “no, absolutely not, _no_.”

Na-na smiles and pushes her hair behind her ear. “Drink your coffee, I made it just like you like it,” she urges. “We’ll talk about after practice.”

~

Once Yoon-sung took possession of her building and half of the tenants had fled for similarly cheap housing that wouldn’t leak onto their mattresses, it had taken about two weeks’ worth of effort and a sufficient amount of money thrown at the right people to get the ceiling fixed and the contents of the top floor gutted to make room for a judo studio.

“If we’re living here and using my house as the office,” Yoon-sung had announced when Na-na had come upon him wielding a sledgehammer and promptly had a heart attack, “I need somewhere to practice. You too.” He reached forward and pinched her upper arm between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re getting fat and lazy.”

“ _Fat and lazy_ , eh?” Na-na had thundered, and she’d almost brained him with the sledgehammer, although common sense had eventually won out and she’d turned her aggression to the walls.

Although there is very little (read: nothing) that Yoon-sung misses about working at the Blue House, the practice space had been large and airy, if always populated by morons. He likes the space in their home because there is no longer any need for pretenses between him and Na-na when it comes to judo. She is better at traditional forms, but she is hesitant about improvising.

Yoon-sung never hesitates when it comes to improvising.

“You’re going to lose if you keep relying on your footwork,” he tells her once he has her pinned to the mat. “It’s like you don’t know anything about judo at all.”

“It’s a _kata_!” Na-na shouts. “Why are you improvising?”

Feeling like his father, Yoon-sung reminds her, “Complacency leads to death.”

In a half second, Na-na has locked her legs around his neck and flipped their positions, her body slipping inside of her robe. “Who’s dead now?” she mocks. “I just snapped your neck.” Her face is pink, flushed with blood and excitement. The color rides high on her cheeks and along her neck.

“Hey,” objects Yoon-sung, “if we’re playing like that, I broke your arm two minutes ago—”

Na-na talks over him, as if he hasn’t spoken. “While I have you here, I wanted to discuss my suggestion further.”

Yoon-sung has no intention of fighting with Na-na about her insane idea while she is sitting on him. “Let me up.”

“I want to know which part you find objectionable,” she continues, settling her weight onto the right side of his chest. “Is it working with Sang-gook? I thought you like him.”

“It’s not Sang-gook,” Yoon-sung says slowly, as though logic will penetrate her skull better if it is moving at a lesser speed. “It’s that you think I’m going to return to that fake shell of a life that I was living.”

Looking stricken but still impossibly gentle, considering that she’s just thrown him to the floor and compressed his trachea, Na-na presses her hand against his cheek. “I would never want you to do that.”

“Then what the hell were you suggesting?” he wheezes. There isn’t enough air in his lungs for a good yell.

Na-na’s eyes take on a peculiar, steely quality. “Corruption has eaten Korea alive. Can’t we fight it without revenge in mind?”

Everything in Yoon-sung’s body and soul tells him that this is a really awful idea that he is going to regret for the rest of his wretched life, which will undoubtedly be of short duration. He also knows that if he says no, Na-na might be stubborn enough to do this her own way. “I thought you were the sensible one,” he mutters in what is probably close to a whine. “Fine, tell me about your brilliant plan.”

~

Dae-hyun, once he’s no longer trying to kill their beloved family members or tied to a chair in Yoon-sung’s basement, will turn out to be a tentative ally and generally useful person; or so Na-na insists.

“He’s a psychopath,” says Yoon-sung flatly. “I’m not keeping him around.”

“He seems interested in reforming,” Na-na explains. “Besides, he never succeeded in actually killing anyone.” She has to shout slightly to be heard over the roar of the open top of his convertible.

Yoon-sung gives up watching the road in favor of staring in slow-dawning horror at Na-na. “How are you justifying that? He dumped you into a fish tank at Sea World with weights tied around your waist. He put my father in the hospital!” Without his intending to do so, his voice has risen into a muted scream. His fingers spasm around the steering wheel.

“He’s apologized,” says Na-na dismissively. “Besides, with Chun dead, Dae-hyun is unemployed.”

“That’s not my responsibility.”

“Of course not,” Na-na agrees, patting his arm gently. “However, it seems a waste of resources. And as long as we keep him employed, he won’t be tempted to tell anyone the truth about City Hunter.”

After twenty-eight years of being the son of a drug lord, and seven months of being a drug lord himself, Yoon-sung knows how to deal with unruly employees and people who don’t know how to keep their mouth shut. This doesn’t seem to serve him well in his maneuverings with Na-na, however.

“Kim Na-na,” he begins.

She throws her hand out to the right and points behind them. “You just missed the turn.”

“ _Kim Na-na_ ,” he thunders, slamming on the brakes and executing a highly illegal U-turn in the middle of the street, “we are not hiring an assassin to help us eliminate corruption in this country.”

“He never killed anyone,” she reminds him, as though that is relevant.

Yoon-sung contemplates throttling her. “His ineptitude is not a selling point!”

~

“Out of curiosity,” Miles asks, “have you ever actually _won_ an argument with your girlfriend?”

Although their connection is sort of shitty and Miles’ face is frozen into a blurry mess of pixels, Yoon-sung has no problem interpreting his expression as one of sympathy and amusement. “Yes,” says Yoon-sung with a stab at dignity.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I can’t lord it over her if I do. She’s a foot shorter than I am and full of delicate emotions.” Yoon-sung is sometimes surprised at the bullshit that falls out of his mouth when he talks to his friends from MIT. When he’d still lived in Boston, in a two-story duplex with a handful of other graduate students, he’d lied through his teeth because he wanted seven years of his own life. Now he seems to be doing it to preserve some semblance of his pride as a man.

Miles’ pixels settle into a new configuration, this one slightly more mocking. “I’ve never known you to care about a woman’s delicate emotions, John. In fact, I wasn’t sure until three seconds ago you were even aware of their existence.”

“Awareness does not have to lead to coddling,” says Yoon-sung absently. He can hear Na-na’s footsteps in the hall leading from the kitchen. She must be making them audible out of respect for his privacy when he speaks to his friends. Even if he hadn’t anticipated the courtesy, it doesn’t surprise him. “The women in Boston were different.”

Although he can’t see it, Yoon-sung can hear the grin in his friend’s voice. “Trust me, we can all tell. When are we going to get wedding invitations? We’ll need at least a few months’ notice to scrape up airfare for Korea.”

“Shut up,” Yoon-sung tells him with a threatening motion. “Seriously.”

A second later, the bookshelf slides open and Na-na appears with a tray on which she has balanced a mug. “I’ve made you the tea that ajhussi sent.”

Miles calls out, “Is that Na-na?”

“No,” says Yoon-sung. He makes a shooing motion with his hand. “Go away, I don’t want that smelly tea.”

“It’s good for your immune system. If you won’t eat your vegetables, you have to drink the tea.” Na-na places the mug at his right elbow and curves over his desk to see what’s on his screen. “Oh, hello,” she says in careful, slow English.

“Heya,” says Miles cheerfully. “Jesus, no wonder you won’t let us visit, John.”

“Are you one of Yoon-sung’s friends from MIT?” asks Na-na. Her English isn’t perfect by any stretch, but years of university and security training have given her a basic, polite understanding.

The connection clears and Miles, in crisp detail, turns on one of his blinding smiles. When they were undergraduates, undecided between math and CS, he and Miles had cut a swathe through Cambridge’s co-eds that was probably still a record. Yoon-sung is not jealous, as that is ridiculous and childish, but he’d have to be blind not to notice that Miles is attractive to females. “Yes, I am,” Miles tells her. “We’re very old friends.”

Na-na moves around the desk so she is no longer hanging over the screen. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says, leaning over Yoon-sung’s lap. “I am curious about Yoon-sung at MIT.”

“Oh, we’re curious about you,” Miles promises. Yoon-sung wishes that the connection would go bad again, before Miles tries making eyes at Na-na again. “John didn’t say that his girlfriend was gorgeous.”

Predictably, Na-na blushes and ducks her head. “Oh,” she says. “Thank you.”

Suddenly irritated, Yoon-sung yanks her off balance and into his lap. “Stop it, Miles,” he says. “How would Virginia feel about you making a fool of yourself?”

The laughter leaks out of Miles’ face. “Virginia accepted the position at King’s College.”

“I’m sorry,” says Yoon-sung. He tightens his grip around Na-na’s waist and then berates himself for being an idiot. Na-na isn’t going to leave him. After everything that’s happened, the time for Na-na to leave him is in their past, with a bloody tiled floor and a surfeit of firearms. Still, he keeps her in his arms.

Miles shrugs. “We’ve been on and off since we were seventeen. If we were going to work it out, it would’ve happened by now.” Even if Yoon-sung privately agrees, he can hear the pain in Miles’ voice. Still, being charming is in Miles’ British blood, so he swallows down whatever he’s feeling and manfully represses it. “I’ll let you two have some privacy, will I? I was serious, John, at least four months for us impoverished graduate students to afford plane tickets.”

“Fuck off,” says Yoon-sung, purposely a touch too irritated, and Miles laughs and cuts off their connection.

Yoon-sung settles back in his chair and holds Na-na against his chest, her legs thrown over the armrest. Everything about her feels small when they are together like this. Her blood and hair and tiny bones rest against him and he can barely feel the pressure on his body. If he closes his eyes, he can call up every centimeter of her skin. He can trace her scars in the darkness, even the ones that have healed and left no mark. For a few seconds, he allows himself to hold her and be blindingly, absurdly grateful that hasn’t decided to give up on him.

Na-na nestles her head into the curve of his neck and sighs. “Do you miss your friends? You haven’t seen them in a year.”

Instead of answering, Yoon-sung takes a last, slow breath, inhaling the scent of his soap from her skin, and then sits up. “Did you find the shipping records yet?”

“Ah, always business with you, isn’t it?” she mutters. “Yes, I found the records.”

Since she shows no sign of moving and Yoon-sung might as well live up to the accusation (“Are you _allergic_ to emotions?!”) that she slings at him with depressing regularity, he dumps her out of his lap onto the floor. “Show me,” he demands.

Na-na rubs her ass and frowns at him adorably from under a mass of hair. “So difficult,” she says to herself. “Like a little baby.”

“Hey, I’ll show you a baby,” he threatens, and a few seconds later they’re wrestling on the floor of his study, a disgrace to both of their judo instructors.

~

After Na-na has settled into her usual restless state of sleep, Yoon-sung slips out of her clawing arms and puts his clothes back on. He texts Sang-gook for the address and drives through a series of abandoned streets until he ends up at the apartment that Chun had provided for Dae-hyun.

Dae-hyun sits in an armchair in front of the door to his apartment, with a knife balanced on his knee and a glass of soju in hand, when Yoon-sung breaks in. “Took you long,” slurs Dae-hyun. “Thought you’d be here yesterday.”

“I had things to do,” says Yoon-sung casually, hands stuffed in the pockets of his pants. Whenever he looks at Dae-hyun’s inexpertly applied eyeliner he wants to grip the back of his head and shove it into a sink until he gurgles the way that Na-na had gurgled, her eyes blown wide by the shock of the cold water.

Dae-hyun shrugs and lifts the glass of soju for a long sip. “Here about your crazy girlfriend?”

In Yoon-sung’s head, he imagines how satisfying it would be to hear Dae-hyun’s neck snap backwards from the force of Yoon-sung’s foot punching into his Adam’s apple. He determines that it would, indeed, be very satisfying, but Na-na would likely be a little disappointed. “My girlfriend,” he says, “seems to think you’re interested in reforming.” He lets his tone speak as to his opinion of this.

Dae-hyun hiccups and stares broodily into his soju. “She’s right.”

“Don’t even try,” Yoon-sung advises him.

Raising his glass in a mocking salute, Dae-hyun meets Yoon-sung’s eyes and says, clearly, “I have seen the error of my ways, City Hunter.” He tosses back the last of his drink and sighs. “I served Chun for many years, and he did not consider my life worth conserving. Perhaps it’s time I revisited my priorities.”

Through decades of experience, Yoon-sung is very familiar with men like Dae-hyun. They’re a bit like dogs; they follow the master that allows them the slaughter they crave. “I am never going to let you near her.”

“Good idea,” Dae-hyun acknowledges slowly. “She’s a pretty one.”

Before his brain has the chance to follow up on the impulse, Yoon-sung has relieved Dae-hyun of his knife and his empty glass and he has the other man by his throat in the air, his fingers pressed against a sluggish pulse. “Try again,” Yoon-sung suggests, his voice level and unfriendly.

Eyeliner smudged, hair a dirty mess, Dae-hyun slumps over Yoon-sung’s outstretched arm and gurgled unhelpfully. The sight disgusts Yoon-sung, and it does more to convince him than all of Na-na’s bright-eyed optimism. “You suicidal fuck,” he observes as he drops Dae-hyun to the floor. “I’m not sure you could kill a bag of kittens right now.”

If he leaves Dae-hyun like this, it is clear that he won’t last out the week. Yoon-sung doesn’t want responsibility for such a life, but he can recognize threads of pain and confusion and betrayal that run heavily through the man now slumped on the floor of a lifeless, empty apartment. Yoon-sung drops into a crouch and lets his hands dangle between his knees. “You will never be alone with Kim Na-na and if you show even the slightest hint of rediscovering your psychopathic desires, I will make sure you disappear.”

“You don’t kill,” Dae-hyun points out. His words are muffled by virtue of being spoken into the carpet.

“I have a drug farm in the Triangle,” says Yoon-sung as he rises. “I don’t need to kill you to make you disappear.”

With shaking elbows Dae-hyun props himself up and flops against a nearby wall. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and shakes his head slightly, sighing. Even with no lights in his mausoleum of an apartment, Yoon-sung can see every detail of his tired, wrecked face. “I accept.”

Yoon-sung knows he is going to regret this like hell one day. “Come by the house tomorrow afternoon. We’re having a chat.”

~

Na-na looks triumphant as she carries a tray of tea and snacks into the living room, where Sang-gook and Dae-hyun are staring at each other sullenly from opposite ends of the couch. Yoon-sung has no idea what she feels triumphant about; they have a pair of criminals making bookends on the sofa and catty-corner to them a slip of a veterinarian who always appears bloodless and on the verge of anemic collapse whenever Na-na bullies her into joining them for dinner.

Sae-hee says, “Thank you,” in a soft, bruised voice as Na-na hands her a cup of tea. She is staring at the center of the living room table, and Yoon-sung has just enough time to be grateful that she has no idea of Dae-hyun’s connection to Chun Jae-man and thus the death of her ex-husband when Na-na finishes playing the hostess and claps her hands for attention.

“Hello!” she says cheerfully, and Sang-gook grunts and shifts uncomfortably. Na-na slips into a soft frown, and Yoon-sung rests his forehead against his hand because this is now his life and he has to man up and deal with it. “Thank you all for agreeing to come,” she continues, bowing to each of their guests and pointedly ignoring Yoon-sung. “It means so much to us that you are willing to help.”

“What exactly are we helping with?” Sang-gook asks. He shoots a quick look at Yoon-sung and then back to Na-na, who is clearly the captain of this particular ship of insanity.

“Corruption is still a problem,” Na-na says seriously, her features drawn into unhappy, downward-pointing Vs. “Yoon-sung fought to expose the truth behind the Rangoon incident and he succeeded.” Her voice lingers awkwardly over _succeeded_ , acknowledging the particularly damaging truth of that statement. “But we did not _fix_ much beyond that.”

“Can it be fixed?” Sang-gook replies, while everyone else looks occupied with figuring out what Na-na is insinuating. “Can we actually make that happen?”

“No,” says Yoon-sung in an undertone, already prepared to be talked over by Na-na—and he’s right, she’s already speaking loudly, arms crossed over her chest.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “If we do this smart and we stay vigilant, we can do it.” She nails Dae-hyun to the couch with a suspicious eye and he immediately blanches. Yoon-sung doesn’t feel sorry for him at all; it’s his own damn fault for underestimating Na-na. “This is not about revenge.”

“It’s about justice,” Sae-hee offers. She puts her tea down and locks eyes with Na-na. “You want justice.”

“Of course,” Na-na agrees. “Anything less would be exacerbating a preexisting condition.”

Yoon-sung has to admit to himself that he was relying on Sae-hee turning squeamish and refusing to help; in retrospect, that was unfair of him and also a really stupid thing to think. “How exactly is this campaign for mythical justice going to work?” Dae-hyun asks, waggling his fingers in conjunction with _mythical_. “Puppies? Rainbows? Kisses?”

“My foot in your face,” Yoon-sung suggests, and Na-na mouths _You’re being unhelpful_ at him. He makes a face back at her that hasn’t seen the light of day since he was eight years old, and she responds with an involuntary flash of a grin, bright enough to be blinding.

“Seoul will always need us,” Na-na continues, and she’s now moving into the part of her pitch that Yoon-sung recognizes, from being muttered over the kitchen counter as she prepared dinner and washed dishes and wore his shirt with her distractingly shapely legs. “The key is to be prepared for any situation, whether it be foreign or domestic in origin, no matter what shape it may take.”

“Make City Hunter a vigilante,” Dae-hyun translates. “Patrolling the streets at night in a mask, beating up muggers?”

“Maybe one day,” says Na-na valiantly, “but not now. For now we should focus on three main goal areas—Blue House, prosecutors, and intelligence services.”

Sang-gook frowns and rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “Clear from the top down?”

“It’s how you purify a stream,” Na-na agrees, as though that metaphor is at all relevant or appropriate; but she knows her audience, because Sae-hee and Sang-gook both nod thoughtfully. Dae-hyun looks slightly less belligerent, which is presumably the same thing.

Knowing that he’s going to get shit about this later, Yoon-sung loudly asks, “And how are we going to do that, exactly?”

He should’ve known better; Na-na looks triumphant as she says, “Good question, Yoon-sung,” and whips a file folder out of thin air. “We have a group of many individually skilled people in this room, and we all have roles that we will need to play.” Na-na opens the file folder and distributes a copy of the report inside to every person in the living room, including Yoon-sung. “This will only work if we trust each other.”

“I trust him like I trust a rabid tiger,” Sang-gook says instantly, not looking up from the report. He means Dae-hyun, of course. There’s not anyone else in the room even vaguely close to rabidity.

Dae-hyun, apparently disinterested in proving him wrong, pulls his lips back and bares his teeth in a low hiss. “Because dirty cops are known for their trustworthiness.”

“I was never corrupt—” Sang-gook snaps, pointing at Dae-hyn with the file folder, and Na-na steps in before any blood has the chance to be spilt over the cushions of Yoon-sung’s incredibly expensive white couch.

“In-fighting doesn’t lead to trust,” she says, aiming a quelling hand at each of them. “If we are to do this, we must devote to it our full selves. There is no holding back for a mission like this. Holding back will lead to death.” Dae-hyun doesn’t look discouraged by this, but Sang-gook’s face twists in apology and he settles back into his corner of the couch with a low grunt. “Do you understand?” Na-na asks Dae-hyn directly. “This is not like your previous work.”

Yoon-sung is prepared to break Dae-hyun’s neck if need be, but there proves to be no need for unnecessary violence, sadly. “All right,” Dae-hyun finally rasps. “I still don’t trust any of you fuckers, but I’ll help.”

Na-na appears to swallow this but Sae-hee shoots Yoon-sung an incredulous look. Even as Yoon-sung minutely nods in response to her nonverbal question, he recognizes that Sae-hee seems the liveliest she has been since Young-joo’s death. There is actual color in her cheeks for the first time in months.

Yoon-sung is going to admit to Na-na that her idea has value on his deathbed, but he relaxes slightly against the chair and Na-na, with her eyes like a hawk, catches it immediately. She beams in his directly unsubtly and tilts her head towards the couch, where Sang-gook and Dae-hyun are reading through her report. _Good, yes?_ she mouths.

 _No_ , Yoon-sung tells her. He shakes his head for additional emphasis.

Na-na’s smile breaks into a grin, her lips parting over her teeth. She pauses for a second and then says, in a protracted way that tells Yoon-sung she’s been watching TV dramas after dinner while he’s been occupied with Triangle business in his office, “Let’s save Korea.”

 _This is going to be a disaster_ , Yoon-sung thinks, and he is a little thrilled in spite of himself.

As if she can read his mind, Na-na proclaims, “It will be fun!” Because all of the idiots they’ve gathered have no respect for their personal safety or a good conceptual understanding of what normal people think is fun, Dae-hyun, Sang-gook, and Sae-hee all nod.

“Yes,” Sae-hee agrees, and if she’s been convinced then there’s no turning this ship around. “Let’s save Korea.”


End file.
